Unredeemed
by WriteToLive
Summary: All men shall have their reward.


'Will that be all, Monsieur le Maire?'

Javert, as ever, keeps his gaze locked firmly on a point over Madeleine's left shoulder. Madeleine taps a pencil on the table, and lets the silence stretch. Only when Javert's eyes shift down to meet his – just for a second – does he speak. 'I think you're forgetting something, Inspector.'

'Monsieur?'

He sighs. 'Your eye, Javert. What happened?'

'Ah. It is of no moment. Merely an accident as I returned to my quarters last night.'

'An accident.'

'Yes, monsieur.' Again, silence. Until Javert lets out a breath. 'Patches of ice remain in the alleys. I was not as careful as I should have been, that is all.'

There is nothing to the man that suggests a lie. 'Very well. Keep the weather in mind in future though, will you please? While I'm sure black eyes are normal in your line of work, there is more to be said for them when earned in the course of your duty.'

He sees a faint line pass over Javert's brow. But there is no rejoinder; the man simply bows, and murmurs, 'Monsieur le Maire,' before taking his leave.

When he is gone, Madeleine relaxes back in his seat. He should not feel amused by the man's injury. Nevertheless, there is sense of satisfaction he will not deny himself.

#

Spring, and he meanders through the public park, remembering to tip his hat to whomever he should pass. The flowers are out, and they fill the air with scent, and bees. He swipes his cane idly at a tulip. The head comes off whole, and lands at his feet; it is red, in full bloom, and he stops to look. He used to dream of flowers when he was in Toulon. He was surrounded by them in his youth, and then later as a pruner. There were days, when he had been hours in the sea and could taste nothing but salt, where he thought he would give up the rest of his life if he could but wander through a pasture again. An orchard, a garden. Anything with greenery, and life.

Now he is free to do it every day, but it is not the balm he thought it would be. He is restless. Montreuil-sur-Mer is busy, but not large. Effecting change moves at the pace of a snail, and his ever-stretched patience is starting to fray.

'Monsieur le Maire.'

'Ah, Javert. Apologies. I did not see you there.'

The inspector has noticed the severed head at his feet. He frowns, and Madeleine feels amusement start. Javert is usually good for that. 'A problem, Inspector?'

'No, no. I did not mean to interrupt your walk. Good day, monsieur.'

He tips his hat. Madeleine puts out the tip of his cane, and rests it on the man's boot. 'A moment. You have been fighting.'

'Well. Yes, monsieur. Sometimes it is necessary.'

'Your face is a mess, sir.'

Javert looks pained, as though he wants to point out that it is hardly up to him where he is struck. But he would never answer so to the mayor, and Madeleine knows it. 'It is only a bruise or two, and a scraped cheek.'

'And a broken lip.'

'Yes. It will be gone in a few days.'

'I believe I told you to take more care. How did it happen?'

The hesitation is clear, but Madeleine feels no need to help him with it. 'I was pushed into a wall.'

'More than once, it would seem.'

'Yes.'

Javert looks straight forward, as if they were in his office. Madeleine pauses, examines his injuries. Then removes his cane from his foot. 'More care, Inspector.'

'Yes, Monsieur le Maire.'

He walks on. Javert's face nags him even without being broken, and now there are raw lines of dried red on his cheek, and a blackened jaw. A lump of congealed blood on his lip, a cracked scab that clearly has no opportunity to properly heal. He sighs, and swipes his cane harder at the grass. He is careful to avoid the flowers.

#

Summer. Heat lies over the town like a thick woollen blanket. His office is at the top of the factory, and has far too many windows for this weather. Javert drones on about something – important, no doubt, but it is too hot to hear. Madeleine pulls at his cravat, the weight of it a silken reminder of the iron he once wore, with its sweat underneath, and the rub on his throat when he swallows. Enough of it. He pulls it loose; only when he is trying to free the top button of his shirt does he realise that Javert has stopped talking.

'I beg your pardon, Inspector. Do continue.'

The button is fastened tight, a victim of the shirt being new, and overly starched. He fumbles with it, suddenly desperate for more air. Javert has said something more, and stopped again. Madeleine frowns at him, but as he seems disinclined to carry on until attention is restored to his discourse, he might as well be of use. 'Apologies. Would you mind…?' He stands, and rounds the desk. Javert steps back, startled; as ever when that happens, he feels a small flush of pleasure.

'Monsieur le Maire?'

'I can't free this button. Can I entreat you to assist?'

'…but monsieur, it is the middle of the day. You are working. It-'

'-is too damned hot to have this thing around my throat. Good heavens Javert, I don't know how you stand that wool. Are you not boiled alive?'

The man stands straighter, a faint look of displeasure crossing his face. 'It is my uniform, monsieur. I will wear nothing else.'

'Of course not. I, however, do not work for the police. I work for myself. Will you not help?'

'…of course.'

He places his hat and cane down carefully, on the chair away from Madeleine, as if afraid they might suffer from the misplaced manners of his superior. His fingers are light, but strong; Madeleine feels two hook behind the join of his collar and press forward a little, bringing the material away from his skin. Then a push of his thumb, and half the thing comes loose before it sticks again. Madeleine watches the man's face, but focuses on his touch. The last time he felt the strength of those fingers, they were coiled around the handle of the lash, breaking his skin apart under a sun twice as hot as this. Something lurches in his belly; there has been no sign of that man in Montreuil sur Mer, but he knows he is in there somewhere. Men like Javert do not change, no more than men like he do.

'There.' The button is free. Javert touches it, and frowns once more. 'I am afraid the thread has loosened. You will need to get it re-sewn. '

'I will do so. I thank you.'

A moment passes. Javert has not stepped back. He realises the man's finger is still at his neck, and feels a touch – no more than a brush. And then, the hand is gone. Javert's face remains impassive, and he returns to where he stood. But Madeleine feels the faint bloom of hate twist into something different, and has to make an effort not to smile. He remains near the man. Just leans back against the edge of his desk. His jacket was already open, and as an experiment, he arranges his body so that it is open. 'You may continue. I missed the last thing you said. Pray repeat that.'

Javert begins to speak. Madeleine listens with half an ear, because it is important to keep track of what criminals are doing in his town. But he also examines his Inspector; keeps watch for signs of attention wandering where it would be improper. It takes a while – five minutes, or ten – but there; a flicker of the eyes towards the exposed triangle of his chest. Satisfaction spreads at once, though it is tempered by the need for caution.

The report is done. Javert picks up his hat. Madeleine does not move. 'Inspector. What have you done to your hand?'

'Ah. It is nothing, monsieur.'

'Fighting again?'

'Unfortunately, yes.'

'You do seem to live an eventful life. What was it this time? A brawl in the tavern?'

The man will not meet his eyes. 'No, sir. An individual. I swung when he surprised me, and came into contact with the wall.'

'It looks as if you've broken the knuckle.'

'I doubt it, Monsieur le Maire. It has reduced markedly, and pains me less every day. Merely a bad bruise.'

On a whim, Madeleine reaches out and takes the hand. Javert gasps at once, in surprise or pain, he cannot say. 'Does this hurt?' He probes gently around the knuckle, and sees the effect at once.

'Yes.'

Lower; he slides his fingers down the back, pressing gently. 'Here?'

'Yes.'

And at the end of the hand, near the wrist. 'Here?'

'Not so much.'

There is sweat on his fingers, and Javert's skin is damp. He must indeed be suffering in that uniform, though he hides it remarkably well. Madeleine traces a small circle, then presses down. A flinch, yes, but only a small one. 'You're right. I do not think it is broken. Still, you should be more careful.'

'So you keep telling me, Monsieur le Maire.'

A small smile exchanged then, and Madeleine releases his hand. 'Come to supper, Javert. Tonight. Are you free?'

'Yes, monsieur. I believe so.'

#

Winter, and his fire blazes. Javert has burned his coat on it twice, but he simply buys him a new one when it happens. He hates this; it caused quite an argument last time it happened. No matter. He had simply pulled it off him, and dangled a sleeve in the flames, holding the man off with his other hand. 'There now,' he had said. 'Ruined. You need a new one.' Javert would have left the house, but he persuaded him not to. He is good at persuading him to do what he wants.

He walks the streets after dark, taking pleasure in the cold because of the heat waiting for him when he arrives home. He carries money with him at all times, because it is good for his reputation to be seen to be charitable. A brilliant disguise, and one he is rather proud of. He has not been proud of himself for some time; stealing that silver left a bad taste in his mouth, but there was never any recourse. Maybe the bishop had not wanted to report the theft, as he had let a stranger into his house. His own folly led to his loss; still, Valjean had not been pleased with himself in the light of day. It had not stopped him selling his prize, and now Madeleine will repay some of the debt, for the sake of his conscience. It has occurred to him that he could afford to repay the silver now, but how to replace the goods without it being known what he did? It is a problem.

He hands money to some beggars by the inn, even though they will only drink it. He stops for a drink himself, then slides down the alley beside the tavern. All these years later, he still feels exposed on the street, as if a cannon may suddenly fire, and every man in town turn into a bounty hunter. Better in the shadows, where his face will not be seen.

He warms his hands by the fire. A knock comes, and disturbs his peace; he takes a deep breath, and answers it himself. It is long past the housekeeper's bedtime hour.

'Javert. I was not expecting you yet. Come in.'

'Forgive me. But-'

The man practically falls through the door. There is blood on his face, and his hat is missing. He catches him, and manages not to buckle under the weight. 'Good heavens, man! What on earth happened?'

'I am not-please, may I sit?'

'Of course, of course.' He guides him to the chair nearest the fire. In the candlelight, the injury is clear, and he pulls away when he sees it. 'Good God. Javert.'

'Yes, I – I do not know what happened.'

He bends. An inverted v-shaped cut is marked deep into the man's cheek. The point at the top of the wound is the deepest mark, and the skin is peeled away from it, a ghost-white flap with blood welling from behind. The two legs of the v are short, but deep also, the depth tapering up to the surface of his face a few inches down his cheek. 'It is…did someone throw something at you?'

'I do not know. Please forgive...I believe I may-' Javert moves suddenly, pushing him aside as he gets up. He hears him vomiting in the kitchen sink, and sticks his lower lip out in contemplation. When he returns, white-faced and shaking, he helps him back to his seat.

'Stay here. I will fetch the doctor. You need stitches – I believe that is the mark of a brick. Could one have fallen from a wall as you passed?'

'I do not believe so. But, I do not remember. I was walking, and then I was on the ground. My sincere apologies, Monsieur le Maire.'

He fetches a glass of water, and makes him take it. 'Do not move. And do not allow yourself to sleep. I will be ten minutes, at most.'

Out in the snow, he hurries. Wind bites at his face even though he keeps it down, buried in his scarf. The doctor has to be roused from sleep; he tells him he will not wait, but meet him back at home. Javert should not be left alone.

He retrieves the Inspector's hat on his return. It is undamaged, lying peacefully on a pure patch of snow. There are dark spots nearby, visible in the moonlight, but they have not stained anything of importance.

#

His fingers trace the mark of the scar. Javert allows it, as he always does. Even looks amused, when touch turns to kiss, and a tongue gently licks up the line of it.

'You are altogether too aroused by that.'

'Perhaps I am just aroused by you.'

But it is true. He cannot leave it alone. His other hand runs through the short hair, making it stand in rough tufts. But his lips live on this cheek, even a few minutes later, when the Inspector is groaning, and arching into the hand rubbing his cock. He tastes the sweat breaking out around the mark, tongues it away like a cat lapping at cream, and cannot, will not, leave it alone.

'One day,' says Javert, through clenched teeth, 'you may see the others.'

'Yes. I will.'

But the others will not be this one. He palms roughly through the material of his trousers, and makes him shudder until the words have trembled away.

#

'This would be easier,' he says, as Javert loses grip again, 'if you would not get yourself so very damaged.'

'I apologise. But then,' Javert tries to regain his hold on the bedframe, hampered by fingers splinted together, 'you did once tell me…oh, _God_…that I should sustain my injuries in the course of my duty.'

'True. But that was before I required you to be able to hold still.'

His fingers draw bars down Javert's back, scratching until he is marked in stripes. The man hisses, and muscles shift under the pain; he is a bowstring pulled taut, and Madeleine looks down on what he has drawn, considering how best to break him tonight. 'Can you bear weight on the hand?'

'I do not think so.'

'Elbows, then.'

Javert turns his head, and regards him with steel-blue eyes that, this time, do not hold a smile. 'I am not a bitch to be mounted, monsieur. Not if asked like that.'

'…you're right. I apologise.' He sighs, and falls back to his heels. His muscles are tight with need, unsated, unsure what they desire. It is harder to remember why he started this. Javert turns under him, naked and unashamed, his erection standing proud against his stomach. He rubs a hand down it, offering it; Madeleine watches, and warms again at how eager he can be. Sometimes he is a boy again; a shaky mirage of what a softer child-guard could have been.

'You like it better when I offer myself,' Javert murmurs, palming the rigid length. 'You never offer yourself.'

'Is that what you want?' He slips his hand into his own open trousers, and eases his cock free. 'Is that what you would have of your mayor, Javert? You want me begging on my hands and knees?' He leans forward suddenly, so their faces are close. 'As you do?'

There is a flicker of confusion, maybe hurt, but it smooths away soon enough. 'You are angry.'

'…no.' He tips further. Ghosts his lips up that cheek, and then finds his mouth. His tongue slips out, and licks along the thin lower lip. 'Please. Turn over.'

A moment, where they simply look at each other. Then Javert sighs quietly, and rolls to his stomach. 'Take it, then.'

The kisses up his back are not an apology. They are not.

He makes sure to fuck him twice as hard, so this is clear.

#

Javert is thinner, these days. Madeleine has spoken to the doctor privately, under the guise of concern for the welfare of the police force in the town. The man assured him it was simply the result of his extended stay in the hospital, after the attack on the Rue du Jardin. A full summer to mend the broken leg, and regain memory of the weeks after the event. It was a worrying time. Madeleine had to oversee the building of the new school, but he had thought of the man often.

'You should eat more.'

'I am not hungry. Thank you.' Javert pushes the stew away, and sits back listlessly in his chair.

'Are you tired?'

'Yes.' He waves a hand, painting a hint of irritation in the air. 'It is painful to walk, still. But it gets easier.'

'You are sporting quite the limp.' Their eyes meet. Madeleine smiles, soft and easy. 'It makes you quite dashing.'

A snort, and an exhausted hand down his face. He watches the long fingers brush the scar, and feels a twinge between his legs. If it shows in his expression, Javert does not seem to notice. 'I should leave. I doubt I will be much use to you tonight.'

'No, do not leave. Please.' He stands, and offers his hand. Javert regards it a moment, then takes it, and borrows his strength to get to his feet. 'You are never not of use, Javert.'

This is what the man takes as a compliment. He wonders, occasionally, what sort of life he must have had, where such words are enough to make him happy. But it is not his concern. He simply leads him to the bedroom, and concedes to his tiredness by helping him undress. Javert sits on the bed, hands palm-flat on the sheets beside him, and looks straight ahead. 'And where would you have me tonight, Monsieur le Maire? I fear I am too tired for your usual favourites. Or does it not matter?'

Madeleine frowns. He has never heard such sarcasm before, and pauses in untying his cravat. 'Lie down, Javert. You are irritable.'

'Of course.'

It is different, these days. The man has always done as asked, in the bedroom as well as out. He has allowed him concessions, of course; in the month before the attack, he had feared he had allowed too much. They had lost whole nights in touch, and talk. Stolen Sunday afternoons to sit and read, and play chess, and then get lost in a tangle of tongues and limbs, crying pleasure out into the dark. Too much, and not enough. Dangerous, he thinks. It was well that fate intervened.

He lies down next to him. When his fingers trail up Javert's throat, they are stopped. 'Leave it alone.'

'…very well.' He kisses him instead, and guides the man's hand into his trousers. A hesitation, and then he feels the stroke. 'Will you tell me what ails you?'

'It is nothing.'

He scratches a feather-light line down Javert's stomach, whispers his fingertips along the thin skin at the base of his abdomen. A moment, two, and he feels him begin to relax. Feels the familiar tightening of the band of muscle there, and smiles inside. 'Tell me.'

'I had an intuition when leaving the police house.'

'Oh?' He breathes it against his neck, and moves so he is between his legs. Javert shifts his hand, pushes his trousers down his hips, allows him to use his weight to press him down. They are long past the questions of why he never fully undresses for this.

'That I was being followed.'

Madeleine nips along his collarbone, licks the pain away. It has been more than a week since they last had this; he is hungry, and there is a beast prowling his gut, demanding satisfaction. He stretches for the oil, and when he brings it back, Javert is looking at the ceiling. He keeps his eyes there as he is taken, slowly, carefully; only shuts them when he is full. Madeleine watches, pushes deeper, does not think of speaking until he draws the first quiet groan.

'You should tell a policeman.'

A huffed laugh, and fingers pulling at his hips. 'Perhaps I should. Or a judge.'

'Oh, yes. A judge would be ideal.' He rocks his hips slowly. Javert is always so open when they do this. Legs spread without shame, every nuance of pleasure writ large across his face. His breath comes deep, chest heaving in a way he never allows himself in normal life. Madeleine lives for this sight, these moments when he flays the man with pleasure, peels his skin away, reduces him from what he was, to what he makes him.

'Yes. So if I am killed, they will know to look for someone.'

He laughs, leans down and bites his lip. It is gentle, but Javert still bites back.

#

Christmas. Javert lies with his back pressed to his chest. Legs and fingers are entwined. The man is dozing. Madeleine presses his lips to the back of his head, and leaves them there. His hair smells like soap, and the smoke from the fire.

He does not think of anything. Not Toulon. Not Valjean. Not these last two years. It has happened before. Javert seems to have this ability of, every few months, robbing him of his memories of anger. Sometimes he forgets to hate. It is distressing; hate is all he has known for much of his adult life. It is the path he chose to walk. When it is taken away, he has nothing left. So he lies here, and thinks of nothing.

Javert stirs eventually, yawns and stretches. 'I must go. I have a shift.'

'I don't know why you always work on Christmas.'

'I do not have a family. It is just. And I am not so heartless as people think.'

Their fingers are still entwined. 'I know.'

Five minutes maybe, and then he moves. Madeleine stays in bed, and watches him dress. It is amazing, how it takes him no time at all to become impeccable, as if he has not spent the last five hours pinned to the mattress, being fucked to within an inch of his life. 'Will you come tonight?'

'I expect so. Unless something prevents it.'

He sits on the bed to pull his boots on. Madeleine reaches up, and runs a finger down his cheek. Javert makes a pretend snap at it with his teeth, but he does not pull away.

'I will see you later then.'

'Yes.'

Left alone, he stares at nothing. The front door closes quietly. He shuts his eyes, and follows the man's path in his mind. Not the main routes. The shortcuts he takes, the alleys he favours. He tends to avoid the Rue de Jardin, these days.

#

It is cold outside. But there will be comfort when he returns home. He will wash his hands, and feel the hatred burn him clean. There is a fire waiting to heat his skin, and food to fill his stomach. Freedom still tastes strange; too strange. He is still the man they made him.

The shadows of the alley wrap around, and embrace him in the darkness. He stands in silence, waiting. Maybe redemption lives in the future; maybe one day he will be able to pray for it.

But not tonight.

Not tonight.


End file.
